


"Ceci n'est pas une pipe"

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canonical Character Death, Double Penetration, Drunk Sex, Impotence, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Orgasm Denial, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Sensory Deprivation, Spanking, Voyeurism, Watersports, Wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:22:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 15,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28155282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: Vita brevis.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames/Thomas Jopson, Captain Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson, Charles Frederick Des Voeux/Cornelius Hickey, Dr Alexander McDonald/Dr Stephen S. Stanley, Henry Collins/Harry D. S. Goodsir, James Fitzjames/Thomas Jopson, Thomas Armitage/Cornelius Hickey/Sgt Solomon Tozer, Thomas Armitage/Sgt Solomon Tozer, Thomas Blanky/Captain Francis Crozier, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	1. Two Skeletons Fighting Over A Pickled Herring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MillicentCordelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillicentCordelia/gifts).



> For MillicentCordelia. Happy winter holiday of your choosing.  
> The title of this story comes from the painting by René Magritte, "The Treachery of Objects". The quote in the summary apparently originates with Hippocrates, which I did not know. Each chapter heading is the title of a work of art, its author listed in the chapter summary.  
> I am not involved in the production of The Terror. No one pays me to do this. This story and the work it's based on are fiction. Don't try any of this at home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Skeletons Fighting Over A Pickled Herring, by James Ensor.  
> The relationships are Thomas Armitage/Solomon Tozer/Cornelius Hickey, and Thomas Armitage/Solomon Tozer. This story takes place around the time of the events of "The C, the C, the Open C".

All he has left, in all of this, is patience. Without it, he will surely go mad. This, the air he breathes, is already madness, Thomas’ life no longer his own, but handled by forces both far larger and far smaller than himself. When he lies on his bed, unable to sleep, there come, thick and feverish, thoughts of rescue, divine intervention, a miracle, milk and honey bleeding from stony ground, offal and rot turning to loaves and fishes, ice melting into wine. When he stands again to toil, though, reality is inescapable. There is nothing to do but endure this, to wait. Wait for what, Thomas cannot say. Under the white sky, the only trace of God is eternity.  
Hickey calls Thomas into his tent. Even for their squalid circumstances, it’s grim. Thomas can feel the shales beneath the tarp on the floor, on which Hickey must be sleeping, as no bedding is visible. Like the rest of them, Hickey’s a bag of bones, not that there was ever much to him. Perhaps at night, his bones grind against the shales. This way, they might be speaking to each other, Hickey and the barren landscape.  
Tozer’s there, standing by the entrance to the tent. Thomas tries not to start when he sees him, but he can’t help himself, then laughs nervously, says, “What is this?”  
Hickey begins talking about duality and reconciliation, and God knows what else, and all Thomas can do is look from Hickey to Tozer, trying to find some reason, for any of this; showing on either of them. Hickey continues to spout declarations, both animated and strangely slow, as though drunk or drugged. Tozer watches Hickey, his expression more tired than anything, like he’s just waiting for it to be over. It makes Thomas feel both far away from and very close to him.  
“So, you see, Mr. Armitage,” Hickey concludes, and no, Thomas doesn’t see anything, has no idea what any of this means, could be ordered to walk out onto the waste, and he’d do it, just to stop Hickey looking at him that way, something now flaring behind his eyes, something Thomas can’t recognize but doesn’t like, “if we’re to go forward, we need to do so with a new understanding.”  
Thomas looks at Tozer, who still gives away nothing. “What?”  
“You love him,” Hickey says, his voice soft, accusing, pitying.  
It’s like he’s been slapped, down to the sudden cold flash of pain, and the blood rising to his face. He looks again at Tozer, which he immediately realizes was the worst thing he could have done. “What?”  
“For his part, he,” Hickey nods at Tozer, “seems to have some warm feeling for you, not, I suspect, as warm as you’d like, but I admit that I could be wrong about that. This is immaterial, because he’s with me.”  
Of course Thomas knew. Or if not knew, strongly suspected, seeing Tozer enter Hickey’s tent after dark, when Thomas was keeping watch. There were sounds not even the wind could drown out. He’d just tried not to listen. “What has this to do with me?”  
“Everything,” Hickey says, “for, say that I’m wrong. Perhaps he feels as deeply for you as you do for him. Why would I wish to stand in the way of that? Asking him is pointless. He could lie. He could even lie without realizing it. Maybe he just doesn’t know. So, I propose a test, by way of a temporary arrangement, through which we may know once and for all what Sergeant Tozer really wants.”  
Again, it’s the only word that seems appropriate to expressing Thomas’ complete and total lack of comprehension. “What?”  
“The three of us are going to go to bed together. You get to experience what I’d imagine you’ve been dreaming about for some time. He gets to see what he’s been missing. I get to sound the depth of his treachery.”  
Finally, Tozer says softly, evenly, “Cornelius, this is madness.”  
“Maybe so,” Hickey says, “but aren’t you curious? Wouldn’t you like to feel how much he loves you?”  
Coloring still more, Thomas looks down.  
“Tommy, you don’t have to do this,” Tozer says.  
Thomas looks at Hickey, smiling serenely, his eyebrows raised, with more the appearance of some sort of deranged priest than a naval officer in that coat. “What does Sergeant Tozer say to this?” Thomas asks.  
“He’ll do anything I tell him to,” Hickey says.  
“I don’t think that’s true,” Thomas says.  
“Isn’t it? Perhaps you know him better than I do, after all.”  
“I don’t consent to this,” Thomas says.  
“Why? Saving yourself for the marriage bed? It’s a touching sentiment, assuming you don’t die of starvation or disease, or ripped to pieces by the creature, hundreds of miles away from the altar.”  
“It’s not right.”  
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d had him. Nothing feels more right than that.” Hickey comes closer, slowly, as though approaching an animal. Without wishing to, Thomas backs away from him. “Go on,” Hickey says, “touch him. He won’t bite you.”  
Strangely, it’s then that it becomes real to Thomas. There is nowhere to go. If he walks out of the tent, God knows what fate awaits him, to be cut down like Mr. Gibson and carved up by Mr. Goodsir, or ravaged by the creature, or found by Captain Crozier and hanged. He didn’t need Hickey to tell him this. He just doesn’t know why it’s taken him this long to realize it, to understand how little any of this matters. Suddenly, it seems a very easy choice. Apologetically, he lays his hands on Tozer’s arms. There’s no telling how this will go, and after all of that, it seems as though the difficult part is over. Truly, he expects nothing, and in accepting this, feels forgiven, safe. Yet, his heart begins to beat faster when after a moment, Tozer’s hands find his waist, and he hears Tozer sigh. It could be a sigh of acquiescence, or one of relief. He’s come this far, yet he lives. He doesn’t know why, but he lives. He looks into Tozer’s eyes, makes himself speak. “I know that you don’t-”  
“Hush, Tommy,” Tozer says gently. He leans down and kisses Thomas. He wraps his arms around Tozer, is embraced in turn, feels the strength in Tozer’s arms and shoulders. No matter what privations they suffer, he’s never diminished. For that, alone, Thomas would hang onto him.  
“How far are you prepared to go, Mr. Armitage?” The voice comes from behind Tozer. Hickey stands there, his hands on Tozer’s waist.  
“Is it up to me?” he asks.  
“We are all somebody’s creature,” Hickey says. “Some more than others.” He takes off his coat, carefully sets it off to the side. He’s dressed only in his underthings, worn for so long that what once was white, so stained by soil and sweat, has taken on the color of a second skin. Thomas tries not to look. Hickey makes a gesture he probably thinks is gentlemanly: “Lie down”.  
The three of them settle like discarded parts onto the wretched tarp laid on the wretched ground, shales digging into Thomas’ back and side, almost touching his very bones it seems. Tozer is between them, Hickey behind him and Thomas in front. How did this happen? It seems… like they’re suddenly other people. Everything about this is wrong, aside from in the usual ways, because it’s simply not them. It’s not me, Thomas thinks, but that’s forgotten when Tozer pulls him close, holds Thomas against his body, kisses him with what Thomas allows himself to believe is real affection. It feels real enough, Tozer’s hands on his face, his neck, then under his shirt. What makes a thing real? Well, that you know it’s happening, of course. But what makes the meaning of a thing a real, not a lie? That, Thomas neither feels qualified to answer, nor entirely wishes.  
A shock of dread runs through him as Tozer covers his body, Tozer heavier than him, stronger than him. For the first time, it seems like a threat rather than an inducement, something about Gibson lingering all around them, though the man is long gone.  
“What are you doing?” Thomas asks, though he feels foolish in doing so.  
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Tozer says, which makes it even worse. There should be no kindness in this place. There can’t be. But Thomas wishes for it, and lets himself be kissed, touched, slowly feeling himself becoming resigned to whatever fate may approach him. If he holds onto Tozer, feels pleasure in touching him, it just goes to show how pointless this all is. Shame implies a future, that someone is ever going to look at him again, measure him against the rules he’s broken. No one’s ever going to see him again. Thomas is going to die here. Tozer’s hand is in his drawers. Thomas kisses him, hard, deep, harder, tastes blood, hears, feels, tastes the moan that’s pulled from within Tozer. Tozer lifts up his shirt, moves down his body. Thomas wonders where Hickey is.  
The answer comes soon enough. Tozer rearranges himself, his head now between Thomas’ legs. It’s to accommodate Hickey, who’s kneeling behind him, lowering Tozer’s braces, unbuttoning his trousers. He has to turn his head at an angle to see, and Thomas watches, knowing but not quite understanding, then knowing more and understanding even less, unable to look away, Tozer all the while operating on him, Thomas’ hands in his hair, still golden, to spite the dirt. There’s a sort of slow collision, Tozer pushed slightly forward, exhaling roughly, Thomas’ hands coming up to steady him. Thomas sits up a little, gets a better view of what’s happening. If it’s unpleasant for Tozer, it doesn’t show. No, that’s not what shows at all, Tozer breathing in deeply and slowly, Thomas feeling every breath that enters and leaves Tozer’s body. Behind Tozer, Hickey exhales softly, the motion of his hips pushing Tozer slightly forward, and Thomas steadies him again.  
It should be horrifying, but it’s really just annoying. To be observed is one thing, but to have to suffer this imposition is another. The act moves ever further from what Thomas has imagined, wanted, beyond fantasy, beyond feeling, beyond guilt, beyond fear, beyond even despair. It makes him unwillingly cold, dulls his senses, takes his desire, his desire for anything. Perhaps that’s what Hickey’s depending on. Perhaps he just has to wait Hickey out. Hickey will finish, and then, they’ll be, if not alone, at least not engaged, and Thomas’ body will again be his own. From the sounds Hickey makes, Thomas judges that he won’t have to wait long.  
Patience.  
And Thomas wonders, thoughts coming in the same hot, vivid stream that they do when he’s lying alone on his bed, when he lets himself hope, almost angrily, for all the ways, each more absurd than the last, that he might be snatched up and taken away from death, wonders what it is like for Hickey. And what it is like for Tozer. And how many times have they done this, that they move together with such thoughtless mechanical grace. How many nights have they passed together? How many nights has any of them passed? How many nights have there been? How long have they been here? How long have they been separated from any semblance of reason? Is Thomas looking into eternity, and is it truly just one long, absurd, pointless fuck that should not be?  
This is not eternity. Thomas doesn’t have to wait long at all, Hickey giving it to Tozer once, twice more, with such force that Thomas has to hold onto Tozer, with the sudden, the terrible impression that they’re going to be thrown off of the side of the world. For all of that violence, Hickey only sighs, softly, then, his breathing soft and regular, as though changed, all of the fury bled from him, slowly gets off of Tozer, then turns away, slipping into a shadow on the far side of the tent. Perhaps he’s melted into it, and evaporated.  
Thomas doesn’t want this.  
“Stop,” he says. “Please.” Then, he’s drawing Tozer into his arms, like Tozer’s been injured, though there’s no injury, and when his mouth again meets Thomas’, it’s with hunger, kisses as deep as they are sweet. If it feels like being consumed, perhaps it’s only fitting. Perhaps that’s what’s always awaited Thomas, like it awaited Gibson. Perhaps it awaits them all. He wraps himself more tightly around Tozer, pulls Tozer on top of him, their uncovered bottom halves rubbing together, fitfully, painfully, like a mouthful of grinding teeth.  
Perhaps it’s not such a bad way to go.


	2. An Interesting Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Interesting Story, by James Tissot.  
> Francis Crozier, drinking alone. This story takes place after the dinner party in "Go For Broke".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Addendum, 12.19.20: As I was driving down the road this morning, on my way to doing my haus frau errands, I was suddenly gripped, as though having been in the deepest sleep, by the realization that I had misspelled the name of poor Sophia Cracroft, using an 'f' instead of a 'ph'. As you might imagine, I was very ashamed and embarrassed, and can offer no excuse for myself except to say that the author is dead. Drunk. Dead drunk was what I was when I wrote most of this chapter, which is, quite frankly, touching evidence of my dedication to verisimilitude. So that the reader is allowed to imagine that, within the story, Francis was so besotted, so infatuated, so drunk and homosexual that he forgot the correct spelling of the name of the woman he wanted to marry.  
> You're welcome.  
> I have found the error, and fixed it, so we can all go back to happily thinking about Francis pulling James' hair.

… A newly-wed…  
God in heaven, what does it take to shut him up?  
You wouldn’t think a man could be so fond of his own history. Not when he’s lived it, knows very well that it’s never like what he tells others, that… that perfume he spreads around, as though to cover up a stink. For that is what it really is, when you’re living it. Stink, and sweat, and pain, and fear. And when it’s all over, you’re not left with a pretty story to tell, but aches in your bones that start to come on with the cold and damp, and then don’t even wait for the weather to sour, but visit you even in the embrace of summer, like you were being screwed down into your bed at night. And the trembling in your hand that won’t still.  
If it’s real.  
If it’s real, you don’t want to tell the story. It hurts too much. It’s your pain. It’s something you made, with your hands. With your body. Why would you want anyone to see something that had come out of you?  
Your hands hurt. From holding on, in the cold. From being awake all night, holding on, in the cold, afraid to sleep, only you might not wake up. You don’t even think of sleeping. Sleep moves beyond you, or you beyond it, as you stop existing until you know whether or not you’re dead.  
Sitting comfortably in his chair, in his own cabin, in the soft lamplight, Francis feels himself shiver.  
You can’t be fond of a thing like that. Not love it. The wounds probably aren’t even real, Francis thinks, snorts as he takes a long, slow sip from his glass. No, he corrects himself, shaking his head, they’re real enough. They’re been seen, recorded. It’s not a lie. Even if it does have the stink of one. All wounds smell. Especially the ones that can’t be seen. It’s how you know they’re there.  
With a peculiar softness: do they still hurt? Of course they do, he thinks bitterly. Fitzjames could even make a rousing tale out of that. But Francis knows the truth. How the damp and cold make Fitzjames feel like his bones are made from rotting wood, his flesh pounded by hammers, his very nerves caught in some animal’s jaws. When it’s bad, he gets out of bed too slowly for such a young man, cursing, has to spend a long moment sitting at the edge of the bed, his feet flat on the floor, but not entirely sure that his legs will support him when he finally drags himself up. He’d never look at the wounds. He’d hate the sight of them. It’d feel like an insult, the way a flaw does to a lady, otherwise lovely, but the one thing that marred her beauty is the one thing you can see, and it’s like you’ve injured her, yourself. Unless you love her, and it becomes a beauty mark, like the stamp left by a caress. You become as possessive of it as you’d be of her favors after you’d had her. Until you had her, that flaw was a promise. Only you knew the secret it contained. Because you loved her, and both generous and greedy in your love, you made up a way to know her that was only yours, to love her through her flaw, like passing a letter through a gap in a wall.  
Though, of course, Sophia is flawless. She’s young, and life has been kind to her, neither age nor illness giving her so much as a touch.  
Francis wants to see the wounds, he decides. Has to. There’s no way to do that, so he’ll imagine. In his mind’s eye, they’re like rubies lodged in Fitzjames’ flesh; shining, even in the dark. In a dark room, he’d be like a lighthouse. You’d move toward those red lights until you reached the shore, the tower of Fitzjames’ body.  
Why does he need to be so bloody tall?  
Francis laughs, in spite of himself.  
It’s not fair to the women.  
She’d have to climb up a small staircase if she wanted a kiss.  
Or Fitzjames would sweep her up, hold her a few inches off of the ground, her feet dangling below her skirts like a clapper in a bell.  
But Francis would pull him down.  
He refills his glass.  
He’d pull Fitzjames down to him.  
By his hair.  
Not by his hair.  
Not pull.  
Draw him down.  
Draw him down, Francis digging his thumbs into the valleys etched into Fitzjames’ cheeks. Pull his hair as you kissed him. It couldn’t be soft. Not like with a lady. Not like with someone you thought of, secretly, in those terms, generous and greedy in love, loving him silently, all the while, giving him your love, and he accepting it because he didn’t know it for what it was. With him, you wanted it to be soft, because you cared for him, worried for him, thought of him kindly when he wasn’t there, wished for his happiness. Even when happiness carries him away from you.  
Francis does not wish for Fitzjames’ happiness. Fitzjames has had enough happiness. He doesn’t need anymore. He doesn’t need Francis’ kindness. It’s liberating to know that it’s not required, because then Francis needn’t summon it, which is always so painful, and doesn’t need to give it.  
He would bite Fitzjames’ lips. Leave him with waxy patches of garnet on the insides of his lips. The taste of his own blood coming to him, his tongue always at the places where Francis had injured him.  
Francis’ tongue at the places he’s injured. The wounds long ago closed up, but it pleases to imagine them still tasting bloody, their true character, their true history hidden from all others. But not Francis. Not when he strips Fitzjames, has him stripped to his skin, stripped to his injuries, no stranger to Francis any longer, Francis unsatisfied by embroidered accounts. Francis would have the truth.  
All of it. Fitzjames writhing, protesting in his embrace, like a lady would. Not in earnest. No tears, or screams, or fingernails. A soft ‘No’. With a puff of provocative laughter. Oh, no. No, I couldn’t. They know how to make themselves understood.  
“I couldn’t,” Fitzjames would say. Though his body, bare beneath Francis’ hands, would say something else entirely.  
Even if her protests were only in jest, you’d let a lady go. Release her gently like placing a tame bird back in its cage. You might chase, and she might let herself be caught, but it’s just to let yourself be lead by her around and around in circles again. You never really catch her. You just want her to let you know that you could.  
There’s no chase with Fitzjames. Not when he’s already trussed himself up, waiting for you. A slap to his mouth, to tell him not to be such a bloody actress.  
“Oh, yes, you could,” Francis will say. Yet, strangely, he imagines himself saying it softly, kindly, as though giving permission. “Yes, you could,” he says, his lips almost touching Fitzjames’. Softly, mouth to his skin, lips just parted as though drinking from a glass. Just enough to admit what you want to put inside of you.  
He opens his trousers, feels around, through cloth and buttons until he touches flesh. Gives himself a few experimental tugs. His body feels far from him, like he left it in another room. Knows exactly where he put it, but is still separate from it.  
Fitzjames is naked on his bed, wounds sweating like stewed fruit in its own juice. There’ll be stains on Francis’ sheets. Pale red stains that fade into pale brown. Colorless stains that stiffen the material.  
Francis tries himself again, to no avail. He’s underwater. He’s at the bottom of a frozen sea. Still, he holds his cock in his hand for a moment, idly wondering if he might have more luck if it was someone else’s hand, and what someone else might feel like in his hand, and what it would look like, in his hand, and how this other person might like to be touched.  
He’d rub himself against the wounds, leaving them sticky. Then, Fitzjames’ mouth, Fitzjames’ lips just parted, his tongue emerging slowly to taste Francis. Then, his body, pressed up against his hip, his thigh. Finish on top of him, face to face, like a nuptial union. Fitzjames spends against his hip. A moan and a splash of heat.  
Sighing, Francis puts himself back together, buttons his trousers. He was very angry about something, but the anger’s faded, and now, he’s tired. He takes a slow, shallow sip of his drink, barely tastes it.  
His front to Fitzjames’ back. Fitzjames’ stupid, fussily-styled hair in his face. The smell of it up his nose. His hand on Fitzjames’ arm. The wound right in the center of his palm. He could fall asleep like this. Indeed, his eyes begin to close. The warmth of Fitzjames’ sleeping body spills into him.  
He’s aware of something slipping from his hand, but it’s with the sense that it’s not really his hand. He feels nothing. Touches nothing. The sea carries him further north, to a place where all is frozen and a thaw never comes.  
Something moves, in the dark, near the lump of matter that Francis slowly becomes aware is his own knee. “James,” he says, waking with a start that lifts him momentarily from his chair.  
His glass is empty on the table next to him. He looks down. Thomas is kneeling on the floor, cloth in hand, massaging whiskey out of the floorboards.  
Thomas looks up, says softly, “You’ve spilt it, sir.”


	3. Crab On Its Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crab On Its Back, by Vincent van Gogh.  
> Harry Goodsir, alone in bed. This story takes place during the expedition, before the events of the series.

Most of all, Harry loves waking too early. He’s no longer asleep, but he’s not awake, not quite, because he may yet have an hour or two before his mind must set itself to the day’s work. Rightfully claimed by neither sleeping nor waking, this time is his own, and his mind still dreams. It’s a time for waking dreams, for softness, and warmth. Even this far north, afloat on a frozen sea, great pieces of ice butting the hull of the ship, there’s warmth. In his bed, among the bedclothes, there is warmth. Even if it is only his own.  
A man may have many companions, in his own mind, extending that warmth, making it neighborly rather than solitary. The conjured image is a balm to bruising loneliness. Sometimes, Harry remembers people he’s known, back home, though, often, this causes more pain than it allays, as he is now so far from home. It is safer to exist in the moment; memory can be such a treacherous thing, beguiling just to injure. Better not to lean too far into nostalgia. Even in fantasy, as strange as it may seem, it is better to accept things as they are. All told, they are not so bad.  
Harry likes Captain Fitzjames, though he fears the feeling isn’t mutual. Yet, for his chilliness toward Harry, he can be, Harry knows, wonderfully warm. He seems to be very close to Sir John, himself, a very generous person, which speaks highly for Fitzjames. It would be nice to be, Harry thinks, on more intimate terms with Captain Fitzjames- James Fitzjames, a euphonious tautonym- James, if one were intimate with him. He can look so severe, but he can also smile so brightly, so kindly, the sign of a man who guards his heart because he knows how easily it may be wounded. It’s charming to see him take off his hat, his hair flattened beneath, softly molded against the curves of his skull. His bones are arresting, most especially the zygomatic arches with their coral-like curves, though these structures pale next to the cartilage that forms his nose. Though it’s sparing in both shape and hue, the lips thin and pale, Harry is also fond of his mouth. The voice that issues from it, deep and rich, colors his impressions. He’s far taller than anyone Harry’s known. He would have to stoop, or Harry to reach. Though, logically, to spare both of them their pains, they should lie down together. He could lie in Captain Fitzjames’ arms. In James’ arms. He would lie in James’ arms, James’ long fingers unbuttoning his clothing, not undressing Harry, merely uncovering him, his mouth on Harry’s neck, just below his beard, where Harry most likes to be kissed.  
Closer to his height is Mr. Des Voeux, who is even colder, more remote than Captain Fitzjames, but being closer to Harry’s height, would provide a physical sensation of greater closeness. He’d press himself against Des Voeux, whose Christian name Harry’s sure he once knew, but has forgotten, so ‘Des Voeux’ he remains. Looking into Des Voeux’s great, dark eyes, with their frequently startled expression, he’d press himself against Des Voeux, from the front, arms around him, hands in Des Voeux’s clothing. The man beneath the clothing remains a mystery, but the size and shape of his hands suggest a slight figure, perhaps slighter, even, than Harry’s own.  
Alone in his bed, Harry shakes his head. It’s too cold in the north. What Harry wants is a full, warm embrace.  
Dr. MacDonald gathers Harry up. Surprised, Harry gasps. Dr. MacDonald is a gentleman; doesn’t push, but knows what he wants. In the Terror’s sickbay, he slips his hand into Harry’s drawers.  
In his bed on Erebus, Harry slips his hand into his drawers.  
His mouth is so close to Harry’s. “Not here,” Dr. MacDonald says, having brought Harry to the point of arousal, but still nowhere near completion.  
In his own hand, Harry’s far closer. There’s no time to embroider if he wants to match his own conclusion with what he imagines.  
Dr. MacDonald takes Harry to his bed. They’re both undressed. Warmed by Dr. MacDonald- by Alexander’s hands, Harry doesn’t need any clothing. It feels wicked to be nude, and luxurious, especially when it is cold; like a rude gesture to nature. Though, it can’t be so very rude, as nature made Harry’s body as surely as it made the snow, made all that his body senses and feels. In all of his rudeness, he lies on Alexander’s bed, lets Alexander look at his naked body.  
Harry pulls down his drawers, for the pleasure, however spare it may be, of feeling the bedclothes on his bare behind.  
Though Harry knows himself thoroughly, only one man has had him, entire. It was unsatisfying, disappointing after Harry’s solitary experiments, which had always been so enjoyable, but not without interest, giving him the memory of another person’s weight and mass atop him. He knows how good it could be, with someone clever and patient, which Alexander is. One only has to look at him to know that. He would offer, and Alexander would accept, taking him slowly and gently, careful in the beginning, then with greater assurance. Beneath him, his legs wrapped around him, Harry would deny him nothing, urging him on, feverish, wanton, desperate, both of them so deep in pleasure that they almost wish it wouldn’t end-  
Softly, he gasps, only once. He can allow himself that much.  
\- but it does end, for both of them at the same time, pressed together, face to face, mouths nearly touching.  
Alone in his bed, Harry trembles, his mouth open, exhaling silently. His body heavy, his limbs slack, he cleans himself up, pulls up his drawers but doesn’t button them, falls back into bed, rolls onto his side, smiles to himself. He’s soft and pleasantly weary, and relieved by the knowledge that he can sleep a little while. He still has time.


	4. The Incredulity of Saint Thomas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Incredulity of Saint Thomas, by Caravaggio.  
> Francis Crozier/Thomas Blanky. This story takes place between "A Mercy" and "Horrible From Supper".

“Can I help at all?” Francis asks, nodding toward Thomas’ wooden leg. “With that?” He winces as he says it, less as though from pain than as though flinching away from bright light on too early a morning. He looks awkward and pinched and unhappy, and it makes Thomas both want to shake him and throw a comforting arm around him.  
“Is that your way of asking to survey the damage?”  
“No,” Francis says in a low voice, turning to the side, shaking his head. “I was there, remember? I saw all of the damage.” Looking even more miserable, he gives Thomas a seeking glance.  
He looks around. It wouldn’t do for anyone else to hear this. There is no one else. All the same, he says it quietly: “I don’t blame you, for any of it. I don’t.”  
“I’d still like to help. In any way you need.”  
“Accompany me back to the ship. Sit with me for a while. That’d help.”  
Francis looks relieved, clears his throat. “Yes. I’ll do that.”  
Once they’re in Francis’ cabin, sat at his table, Jopson and the tea having come, the one leaving and the other staying, Francis is back to looking hounded. “Does it-” Francis begins, addressing his question more to his teacup than to Thomas.  
“Does it what? Does it hurt? You don’t want to hear about that.”  
“I do. I have an interest in your well-being.”  
“I didn’t say that you don’t care. I know that you care. I said you don’t want to know.”  
“Please,” Francis says, looking dazzled and lost.  
Thomas sighs, hooks his finger into the lip of the ashtray on the table, and draws it toward him. “All right. It hurts, but maybe less than you’d think, or in a different way. At its worst, it feels like it’s bigger than you, bearing down on you, like a wave. Mornings are the worst. It’d be nights, only you’re too tired to do anything but collapse. In the morning, for a second, you almost forget how bad it is, so it hits you all over again. Or you feel it before you’re fully aware of yourself, and don’t know what’s wrong. Walking hurts. Standing hurts. Moving hurts. Sometimes, looking at it hurts. Dr. MacDonald knows his business, but there are some things even a good doctor can’t get around.” He lights his pipe, hoping that’ll serve as a signal that the subject is closed.  
“No,” Francis whispers, clears his throat. “No, I suppose not.”  
“But, I’m alive. There is that to say for Dr. MacDonald. For you, as well, for cutting me down, getting me below-deck.”  
“The men did that. I was just there.”  
“For the moral support, then,” Thomas says gently.  
“If I could take it back-”  
“Leave it alone, Francis.” He didn’t want to talk about this, though he’d feared, known he’d have to. It’s not just his wound, but Francis’, as well, and of the two of them, it seems to hurt Francis more. Sometimes, with a shared wound, the pain’s not shared equally. It seems as though Thomas has gotten away easier, in one sense, at least. He sighs again, sits his pipe in the ashtray, draws Francis close, though he doesn’t know how Francis will react with a clear head. For a moment, Francis is tense, in shock or fear, perhaps, doesn’t remember that he used to be easy to embrace or doesn’t want to, and Thomas is ready to let him go, but then, he relaxes, lets Thomas hold him, his hand on the back of Francis’ head.  
He’s ready to let go, but Francis isn’t ready to be released. He holds onto Thomas, not clinging fiercely like he used to, as though daring Thomas to hold him, but with gentle persistence. He rubs Francis’ back, gives Francis the option of taking it as a conclusion; the gesture has served its purpose, and Francis can go on, is free, is forgiven, is whatever he feels he needs to be.  
When he looks at Francis, though, he sees something else. It’s not a conclusion. He pats Francis’ cheek, gives him another way out. Francis takes his hand, holds it there. Though it makes him slightly disgusted with himself to do so, he sniffs the air near Francis, but there’s no scent of whiskey coming off of Francis, nothing but tea and warm wool and the scent of Thomas’ own tobacco.  
“All right,” he says, as much to settle himself as Francis, and kisses him. With a great motion that almost knocks Thomas off-balance, Francis pulls him closer still, kisses him as though he were drawing breath from Thomas. He kisses Thomas long and deep, his hands in Thomas’ hair, warm and animated in Thomas’ arms, Thomas enfolding him ever more. He could laugh, it feels so good. He’d forgotten how good it felt. He’s missed Francis so much.  
“Tell me to stop,” Francis says. He’s still holding onto Thomas as he says it.  
He does laugh. “I think I’d be mad to.”  
Francis lets go a little bit, but not completely. “I can’t promise you anything.”  
“I’m not in any state to boast about my abilities at the moment, either.”  
After a moment, Francis says, “We could still try.”  
He lets his hand drop to Francis’ knee. Slowly, he moves his hand higher, following the line of Francis’ thigh. Francis’ eyes slip closed. Thomas smiles. Francis has always liked that. “Yes,” Thomas says, “we can try.”


	5. Enchanted Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enchanted Forest, by Jackson Pollock.  
> Harry Goodsir/Henry Collins. This story takes place sometime after they've left the ships.

It’s just like his.  
“It’s just like mine,” Henry murmurs, stroking his thumb through the hair on Harry’s breastbone, then further down Harry’s body, to the side and over the hills of his ribs, to cup a hand over his belly, soft, dark hair on his pale skin.  
He hadn’t meant to say it aloud.  
His blood runs cold.  
All he can hear is the wind outside of the infirmary tent.  
Then, softly. “I suppose it is.”  
He looks up, to see Harry’s expression. He’s smiling sleepily. Fondly, Henry thinks.  
Fondly. When he runs his hand over Henry’s breast. His eyes fall closed, then open again. “Here, as well,” Harry says, sitting up and pressing his lips to the top of Henry’s head. “Here.” His nose brushes against Henry’s beard, next to his ear.  
“Do you like it?” Henry asks.  
“I hadn’t given it much thought.” Though, the way he says it suggests that he has.  
“It isn’t strange, somehow, is it? Touching someone who looks so much like you?”  
Harry regards him gravely. “Do you find it strange?” There’s another question in his eyes.  
“Not at all,” Henry says without hesitation. He lays his hand against Harry’s breast. Touches. Feels. He’d never thought of a man being soft before. If Harry is, he supposes he must be, as well. “How do I feel to you?”  
Harry brings up his hand, mirrors the position of Henry’s hand on his own breast. He caresses. Pets. Henry feels his breath catch. Just behind Harry’s hand. Harry could touch his breath. Hold it in his hand, like a piece of ice. Breath. Breast. They’re almost the same word.  
“Very warm,” Harry says. “And how do I feel to you?”  
“So very soft.”  
“Soft?”  
“Like something unbelievably fine. Even here.” He runs his hand over Harry’s beard. “Like the curls that come off of a piece of wood, when it’s sanded down. You wouldn’t believe how soft they can be. You might fall asleep in a pile of them, as comfortably as in your own bed.”  
“Do you want to fall asleep in me?”  
For a moment, Henry can’t speak. He hopes his eyes can tell Harry to wait, to please wait, please, until he’s able to find his voice, and say, barely above a whisper, “Yes.”  
Harry kisses him. His eyes closed, he feels Harry guide his hand down Harry’s body, over and through all of that hair, how it caresses the palm of his hand, until he feels the thin material of Harry’s drawers, the buttons, smooth and hard like little pieces of ice, then unbuttoning his drawers, more hair beneath, thicker, warmer, that Harry gasps to have touched.  
Eyes still closed, Henry wraps his hand around Harry’s cock, pulls gently. Once, twice. Hears nothing except for Harry’s breathing.  
“And there?” Harry asks.  
Henry opens his eyes. “No. Not soft at all,” he says.  
Touching, he looks at Harry.  
Harry looks at him.


	6. The Minotaur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Minotaur, by George Frederick Watts.  
> Thomas Jopson/James Fitzjames; Thomas Jopson/Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames. This story takes place between "A Mercy" and "Horrible From Supper".

The first time he catches them, it’s a shock. He doesn’t know why. He’s all but given it his blessing. More than that. He steered them toward each other. Thomas practically had to be compelled. At first, James tries to dissemble, but seeing that it’s pointlessly insulting to all three of them, admits to it nonchalantly, though his eyes are full of questions, that Francis does not have the energy to answer. All the while, Thomas looks at the floor, his cheeks scarlet, taking far too long to button his trousers.  
The second time, when he finds them in James’ bed, it’s not the act that shocks Francis, but that Thomas left Terror. Did James ask him to, or did he volunteer? It should outrage Francis- all of this should- but once surprise fades, and that strange feeling of not fully understanding what he’s seeing, it only truly makes him feel sad. It’s the strange, late-afternoon sadness felt when left behind by a party of friends, thought unable or unwilling to go along, and abandoned in an empty house, to fill the time with solitary pursuits. The slight isn’t intentional, but that makes the loss more acute: you needn’t have been alone.  
They don’t see him seeing them, so he lets them continue. Thomas is naked, James wearing only his shirt. They lie on their sides, their bodies entwined, moving together, Thomas riding James’ hip rather shamelessly. Then, James turns Thomas onto his back, spreads his legs, kisses him for a long time, his mouth, his naked body, brings Thomas off with his mouth. His lips swollen, wet, he kisses Thomas, who arches up into his embrace, his hand moving up under James’ shirt, then down. Carefully, James rearranges himself, straddles Thomas’ hips, and Thomas strokes him to completion, James’ hips rolling desperately as he spends on Thomas’ chest.  
There is a sort of desperate pleasure to be had in confronting them. Just then, in particular, Thomas trying both to cover his nudity and to wipe himself clean on James’ bedclothes, James attempting to negotiate getting off of Thomas while holding his shirt down over his hips. Francis wonders why they bother. He’s seen them both in the nude often enough. He could map Thomas like a piece of coastline.  
No one speaks, Thomas rushing to dress, James standing by the bed in his shirt, Francis watching them both. Finally, Francis says, “I’d ask if you enjoyed yourselves, but that would imply an even greater inability to grasp the obvious on my part.”  
“Francis-” James begins. Francis raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t think it wasn’t allowed,” James says. “Is it not allowed,” he says, as more of a statement than a question.  
“If it weren’t, you’d have to be punished, wouldn’t you?”  
Softly, James laughs. “And how would you do that?”  
“You should have each other again, while I watched, for my pleasure, any time I wished. There’s a kind of symmetry in that. Though, it wouldn’t really be much of a punishment.” He waits a moment, then says gently, “Thomas, you’re needed back on Terror.”  
“Should I wait for you, sir?”  
“No. I’ll be along, in time.”  
“Sir,” Thomas says softly, nods, leaves.  
“Are you in love with him?” Francis asks. Even now, it feels strange to ask it of a man, about another man, and doing so sends a chill through him. That means it’s real, now. It was always real, but Francis can no longer deny it. This has been happening. This is what he had, and now, he may lose it and not, no matter how he may wish it were so for the sake of his pride, because of a betrayal, but because of his own coldness, his own deficiency. Try as he might, he cannot blame either of them, not begrudge them a thing, even at his own expense. More than anything, he feels his own coldness.  
James laughs, though not unkindly. “Jopson’s a boy.”  
Francis shakes his head. “He’s not, but if you think him so inexperienced, it’s the all the more reason not to trifle with his affections.”  
“He expects nothing from me, nor I from him. Though I don’t believe it’s him that you would seek to protect against disappointment.”  
“I care very deeply for Thomas, and for you, James, as I think you both know, but, no, you’re right, it’s for myself that I’m concerned. Though such concern may be foolish, my having brought the two of you together.”  
“I will say this only once, as I’ve no desire to bring up past disagreements between us, or memories we both find unpleasant, but as others have remarked, you hold yourself apart, Francis. Whether in this case, it’s out of injured pride, or fear of being hurt, I don’t know, but in doing so, you deny both Jopson and myself the comfort we would have from you, and give to you.”  
“I don’t do so on purpose.”  
Sighing, James comes closer, says softly, “I feel very warmly toward Jopson, but if you wished it, I’d never touch him again.”  
“And then you’d have nothing,” Francis murmurs.  
He places his hands on Francis’ arms, inclines his head. “I’d have a great deal more than nothing.”  
Feeling stricken, he looks James in the eye. “I won’t give him up. It may be difficult to understand, but I need him, James, just as much as I need you.”  
“I understand it perfectly well.”  
“Is it not, though...” frowning, Francis searches for the appropriate word, “… unfair?”  
“In what respect?”  
“Is it not unfair that I keep both of you?”  
“You don’t keep us, Francis; we give ourselves, freely.”  
“Is it not, then, unfair that you both feel bound by a promise I cannot fulfill?”  
“Why are you so insistent that we’re compelled? And why are you so eager to believe that we find you lacking?”  
“That’s how it feels, to be incomplete.” Only once he’s spoken does he realize precisely what he’s said. James looks at him with such unbearable- Francis would like it to be pity. If he were pity, he’d know what to do with it. But it’s not pity. Francis clears his throat. “This is unlike any situation I’ve found myself in before.”  
“There is a lot happening now that’s unknown, to us all, which is all the more reason to hold onto that which brings us joy.”  
“Do I, bring you joy?”  
“Very much joy.”  
For a long time, he can’t speak, can barely think. Finally, to say something, he asks if James is not cold.  
“Quite cold, actually. There just didn’t seem to be an appropriate moment to dress.”  
Francis smiles. “Will you come to see me, tonight? To see us, Thomas and myself?”  
“I will.”  
“I’ll leave you, then, for now.”  
James smiles back at him. “Just for now.”  
He finds Thomas in the pantry, polishing the silverware. Upon seeing Francis, he stands, a spoon falling from his lap onto the floor.  
“Might I have a word, Jopson?”  
“Yes, sir,” he says, picks up the spoon, sets it aside, and follows Francis into his cabin.  
“I’m not angry,” Francis says.  
“Sir.”  
“I want you to be happy. Does James make you happy?”  
“I am… fond of him,” Thomas says carefully.  
“More than fond?”  
His eyes meet Francis’. “My heart belongs to another.”  
“I see. Does it cause you distress that I should divide my attention between the two of you?”  
“It does, but he makes you happy, sir.”  
“You make me happy, too, Thomas.”  
“I try to, sir.”  
“It’s not my intention to neglect you, though I can see how you might feel neglected.”  
“I miss you, sir.”  
“I understand.”  
“Thank you, sir.”  
“I can’t give up James.”  
“I would neither expect it nor ask it of you.”  
“Even though he makes you...”  
“Jealous, sir.”  
“That wasn’t jealousy I saw.”  
“If I may, sir, I’d suggest you look a little bit more closely”  
Francis nods. “Yes, I see. He’s coming here tonight, to see us both.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“If it pleases you, you may enjoy yourself with him, not that I need grant you permission.”  
“There is something I’d enjoy far more, sir.”  
“And what’s that?” He means to sound playful, but he only succeeds in sounding unsure.  
“You, sir.”  
He can’t speak, but only look at Thomas, his eyes so clear and pale, looking right through Francis, seeing everything and never looking away. It almost hurts. It does hurt, but Francis doesn’t want it to stop hurting. He clears his throat. “Why don’t you return to your work? I’m sorry to have taken you away from it.”  
“I’m not,” Thomas says, and smiling, leaves the room.  
That night, Francis sleeps soundly, well-loved, and warm, in a double embrace.


	7. Two Figures At A Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Figures At A Window, by Francis Bacon.  
> Thomas Jopson/Edward Little. This story takes place any time before "First Shot A Winner, Lads".

“Are you sure we won’t be seen?”  
“And who would be looking? Do you think you’re worth looking at, Lieutenant Little?” Thomas smiles, the color rising to his cheeks, that peculiar hue that is neither pink nor red, but can only be called ‘rose’.  
Edward frowns. How severe his expression, and how at odds it is with his youth, but, then, all things about him are at odds with his youth. He stands, he walks, he frowns like a man of twice his years, overburdened by cares. He’ll be old before his time. “I wish you wouldn’t be so flippant. We may be in the middle of nowhere, but there are still rules, regulations, laws. We being so far from the body that makes those rules, regulations, and laws, I wouldn’t be shocked if propriety were dispensed with in favor of directness and expediency. You and I might find ourselves swinging side-by-side from a yardarm.”  
“There’s only one body I care about,” Thomas says.  
“Mr. Jopson, please,” Edward hisses, looking cornered, his gaze darting around, as though they were surrounded by interested parties and not dumb inanimate objects.  
“You’re becoming hysterical. I may have to slap you.”  
“Perhaps you should,” Edward laughs, only jesting, trying for levity, but then Thomas’ hand makes contact with his cheek. The sound is like a match being struck in a dark room.  
For a moment, neither says anything, Edward holding, open-mouthed, his hand to his cheek, and Thomas breathing heavily, flushed, lips parted, looking as though it were he in a passion, not Edward. Then, his brow twitching into creases in either anger or resolution, Edward grabs Thomas by the shoulders, and kisses him.  
When he is released, Thomas sighs out a long breath. It’s like that of a half-drowned man, when breath is returned to him.  
Edward starts to take off his jacket, but Thomas tells him to keep it on. “It makes you look like a captain,” Thomas says, opening his mouth to show how he touches his tongue to his teeth like a hungering beast.  
“You are the very limit, Jopson.”  
“Please,” Thomas says, his hands at the buttons of Edward’s trousers, “call me Thomas.”  
Whether or not Edward accepts the invitation to be on more familiar terms is unknown, because Thomas kisses him, his hand at the front of Edward’s trousers, then inside. At first all is hidden, bringing the thrill of expectation, like the last preparations that take place before a performance, the actors all on stage and waiting, until the curtains rise, and the play begins. Then, Thomas’ hand emerges, tugging Edward’s shirt up and out of the way, exposing Edward’s cock, thick and pink and already half-hard, which he caresses slowly, drawing soft gasps from Edward. Edward can only fall back, let the wall support him as Thomas continues to touch him, slowly, cruelly so, the gentle twist of his wrist, the practiced grasp of his fingers, rubbing his thumb against the tip. As he does, he holds his other hand to Edward’s heart, Edward’s own hand fixed helplessly over Thomas’.  
“I want you in my mouth,” Thomas says softly, half muffled as he brings his mouth to Edward’s neck, kisses him there. He pulls back, looks down at Edward’s cock in his hand, then up, into Edward’s eyes. “Would you like that?”  
“I-”  
“I think you would. Would you, Edward?”  
Still, Edward cannot speak. You’d feel bad for him if it weren’t so amusing to see him so inconvenienced.  
“Would you like to feel my mouth on you? Would you like your cock in my mouth?”  
“Oh, Lord,” is all Edward manages to get out, his head falling back.  
“I’ll take that as an expression of your enthusiasm for the proposition.”  
Before Edward can stumble further back into language, Thomas kneels, breathes in deeply, and takes Edward entirely into his mouth. He draws back, almost completely releasing Edward’s cock, so slick with Thomas’ spittle that it catches the light, and then places his hands on Edward’s hips, and draws Edward bodily back toward him, Edward’s back arching away from the wall, Edward now penetrating his mouth as his mouth consumes Edward. Low in his throat, Thomas makes a small sound of pleasure. He keeps his hands on Edward’s hips, guiding his movements, quick and tight, Edward now seeming curiously separate from the lower half of his body, as though it belonged not to him but to Thomas.  
“Thomas,” Edward gasps. He tries to convey his meaning without saying the words, to disengage his cock from Thomas’ mouth, but Thomas stays where he is as Edward goes rigid, but for the jerking of his hips. His eyes clenched shut, Edward jams his finger into his mouth, suppressing all sound but a soft exhalation that might be mistaken for an utterance of sorrow.  
It seems to have done him some good. Afterwards, he looks considerably less miserable. Somewhat surprisingly, he lets Thomas kiss him on the mouth, Thomas’ lips still wet with his cream. It’s a sweet, soft kiss, and Thomas looks, though only for an instant, as though he might be thinking about having regrets. Gently, he puts away Edward’s cock, and begins tidying Edward up. It’s an attention he doesn’t have to think about giving. It’s what he was born to do. Edward catches Thomas’ hands as he does up the last button of Edward’s jacket, holds them in his own.  
“Let me do something for you,” Edward says softly. “Please.”  
“I thought you were worried about being seen.”  
“Yes, but-”  
“Better that I leave you with something to think about, for the next time.”  
Edward’s eyes widen. “The next time?”  
“I’m too good to have only once.”  
Edward laughs. “Yes. Yes, you are.”  
“Until then, think of me,” Thomas says, and quickly kisses Edward once more. Belatedly, he touches his handkerchief to his lips. “Wait a moment before leaving,” he adds, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket, turns, and leaves the room. Edward gazes forlornly at the door.  
An intermission.  
The curtain rises anew.  
Behind him, Thomas closes the door, latches it. The sound was expected, but Francis still starts, clumsily replacing the framed map that hangs over the hole in the wall. He turns around. He crosses the room to Thomas.  
“I think you enjoyed that a little too much,” Francis says. He means to tease. It sounds like a warning.  
Thomas sweeps his hair back from his brow. It falls immediately back to where it lay, a curtain of black velvet. “I think the pleasure was all yours, sir.”  
“Not all mine,” Francis says.  
“Wouldn’t you like to know, sir?”  
“Know what, Thomas?” Francis murmurs, suddenly disarmed, unable to look anywhere but Thomas’ mouth. He makes himself look up, into Thomas’ eyes, though he knows it’s just to be further mesmerized.  
When he smiles, Thomas’ eyelashes come down to shade his eyes. As though moving of its own volition, Francis’ hand finds Thomas’ cheek, caresses with the thumb. Unbidden comes the image of Thomas’ hand on Edward. If it is unbidden, what it brings with it is welcome, a dark and bitter tide of arousal that spreads into hunger. Then Thomas raises his eyes again, fixing Francis with a look that squeezes all of the blood from Francis’ heart and pours it between his legs. Francis opens his mouth, but can’t speak. “Kiss me,” Thomas says, “and find out.”


	8. L.H.O.O.Q.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> L.H.O.O.Q., by Marcel Duchamp.  
> Thomas Jopson/Francis Crozier. This story takes place any time before "First Shot A Winner, Lads".

Once, he’s sure, he would have borne the strain on his nerves far more gracefully. Those times are within his memory; sift through his recollections, and he might find them. Yet, they are remote, objects on a horizon that blends with the sky; there not for sight, but for faith, alone. Or perhaps the change is not in him, but in Thomas. Perhaps he tires of their arrangement, and it makes him irritable, prickly. The thought comes suddenly, unbidden, like starting wakefulness from a dreamless sleep, and Francis thrills suddenly, as with new awareness, as with sudden and uncomfortable consciousness of himself: not feeling safe in saying so, Thomas expresses his new reluctance like this. As it occurs to Francis, as though taking a cue, Thomas’ teeth press again into the sensitive skin of Francis’ throat, near the pulse, like the warning nip of a bored cat, not enough to break the skin, but possibly enough to leave a mark, which Thomas knows very well he’s not allowed to do.  
“You know you’re not to do that,” Francis says unnecessarily. But it is necessary, when Thomas looks back at him with his great, pale eyes, his placid expression touched with contrition that is false, mocking. Francis’ breath hitches. He forces himself to maintain his equilibrium. “If you do that again, I’ll have to make my displeasure known.” He hears the whiskey in his voice, and it makes him want still more of it, as if he could drown that wobbling, sloppy edge that makes him sound so unsure of himself.  
“Of course, sir,” Thomas says, and brings his mouth back down to Francis’ neck.  
This time, it is nearly hard enough to break the skin, and Francis hears himself gasp, feels his body jerk. Anger rises in Francis, then falls again when he pulls back and looks at Thomas, sees the light dancing in Thomas’ eyes, lowers his gaze to Thomas’ mouth, red lips parted in expectation. He is certainly being made into a play-thing, but not for the purpose of ridicule. For Thomas’ pleasure. He feels himself color, to the roots of his hair.  
“Stand up,” he demands, his voice convincingly hard, his expression sufficiently severe to make Thomas start, jump up off of Francis’ lap, stand at attention. For a long moment, Francis regards him. Any man could be touching him right now, but he chooses to give himself to Francis. Yet, he could just as easily change his mind. At any moment, he might, not in treachery, Francis chastises himself, but in youthful ardor, turn to someone closer to his own age, a young man as handsome as himself. Francis feels something clench wretchedly in his chest, so like pain but with a bitter-sweetness to it, as he watches Thomas breathe in and out, his gaze held straight ahead, his back straight, perfectly correct except that he’s missing half of his uniform and the stiffness of his cock ruins the line of his trousers. “Bend over the table,” Francis says, softer now.  
“Yes, sir,” Thomas replies, as to any other order. Francis watches him do it, waits a moment, then stands. He wants to drink more, so he does, though he’s already in so deep that he no longer registers himself becoming intoxicated, so much as being pushed further down into a hole he feels like he’s always been in. It’s a hole in the earth, dark dirt packed into velvet softness. If he finds it difficult to sleep at night, waking suddenly in the dead of night, feeling dry and miserable, his body aching like he’s been beaten, unable to fall asleep again, then in the waking hours, he moves like a man walking in his sleep, his limbs weighted down and his senses muffled. But this, now, is a waking dream.  
He sets down his glass, crosses the room to Thomas. Thomas’ braces are already down, though Francis can’t remember either himself or Thomas having lowered them. Brusquely, more brusquely than he wishes to, he unbuttons Thomas’ trousers, pulls them down, then, Thomas’ drawers, his fingers stumbling over the smaller buttons, until, irritated, he yanks the drawers down, feels the suggestion of fabric stretching to tearing, Thomas’ stifled sound of annoyance. Remorse bites him, and he bites it back, swallows it down. He’s aware of someone breathing heavily, though he’s not sure which one of them it is.  
A gasp.  
That sound is Thomas.  
The clap of flesh against flesh.  
That sound is both of them.  
Francis draws back his hand, further this time, and again brings it down on Thomas’ backside.  
Thomas moans; too abruptly and too softly for it to be for show.  
Again, Francis hits him, harder, for the pleasure of Thomas needing to steady himself. He gives Thomas a moment, lets him position his hands more comfortably on the table. He spreads his legs wider apart; raises his arse. Three blows have left his white skin patched with pink, almost red.  
Another two, and he is red, the marks from Francis’ hand taking on the appearance of nettle stings.  
“Have you learnt your lesson?” Francis asks. Uncertainty creeps again uninvited into his voice. He looks over his shoulder, at his glass, empty but waiting to be filled.  
“Not quite, sir,” Thomas says softly.  
Francis smiles fondly, lets himself feel relieved. He hits Thomas again, quite hard, then lets Thomas collect himself. He’s still trembling when Francis resumes. This time, the quality of his moan is unmistakable, and it reaches down, deep down into the hole in the earth where Francis resides, and draws him back up, into living flesh and blood. Yet, anything worth doing is worth doing well, and ten is a more satisfying figure than seven. He forces himself not to rush, to spare neither Thomas nor himself, though by the ninth blow, he knows it’s his own labored breathing he’s hearing, and his liquor-dry mouth is wet, and the tickle he felt between his legs earlier is becoming an ache.  
The tenth blow.  
“Please,” Thomas says. “Sir.”  
Francis thinks of nothing, simply gathers Thomas up, turns him around, holds him against the edge of the table. Wincing, Thomas gasps, and arousal pushes past concern and Francis presses Thomas’ rear against the table again to feel Thomas wriggle against him in discomfort. He holds him still, feels Thomas breathe in and out, slips his hand between Thomas’ legs, feels how hard his cock is, how wet at the tip, dripping, and down along the underside, Francis’ thumb slipping through the wetness.  
“Maybe you’d be more comfortable as you were,” Francis says, “bent over the table.”  
For a moment, Thomas only breathes, as though too worn-out to speak. Then, softly, “I think so, sir.”  
“Did I hurt you?”  
Thomas smiles. “Oh, very much, sir.”  
He draws Thomas forward, slips his hand between Thomas’ backside and the table, lets the table edge dig into his knuckles as penance. Thomas’ skin is soft, tender, so very warm. He leans down, kisses Thomas, then gently turns him around, pulls up his shirt where it’s fallen down and covered him. Impossible as it is to make out individual handprints, it could be many hands all over Thomas at once, caressing him, loving him. But none as much as Francis’. Before he can think better of it, Francis kneels, touches his lips to the irritated flesh. And again. And again. With the tip of his tongue, he catches the suggestion of iron. He presses the heel of his hand between his legs. He kisses Thomas’ rear once more. How very warm it is.


	9. Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Water, by Giuseppe Arcimboldo.  
> Charles Des Voeux/Cornelius Hickey. This story is another way that Hickey and Des Voeux's encounter in "A Mercy" might have gone.

No matter how much grog he pours down himself, there are some things that will never be bearable.  
It’s not like home, at all. The carnival’s a cheap, garish imitation. That’s precisely what’s supposed to make it comforting. It’s not cheap; it has the sweet ugliness of something made with great care and affection by your own hand. It’s not garish; it’s bright and welcoming.  
It hurts just to look at it.  
Charles drinks until nausea swings at him, then stumbles away from the crowd. Dimly, he’s aware that he’s more intoxicated than he thought, and that he could very well become irretrievably lost, if not in the labyrinth, then after wandering outside, to fall on his knees and vomit in the snow, or doze off and freeze, or be eaten by the creature. At the moment, any of those seems equally likely, and none arouses any particular emotion.  
Instead of perdition, though, he merely encounters Mr. Hickey, relieving himself against a wall. Someone had to build that wall, out of whatever he could find, with his hands. It should make Charles angry. It just makes him feel hopeless.  
“One might be tempted to ask if you saw something that interested you, sir,” Hickey says, his stream unceasing. How long has he been doing it? How long has Charles been standing there, watching him? He must have a bladder like a barrel.  
“No,” Charles says glumly.  
“But what, precisely?” Hickey continues.  
“What do you mean, what?”  
“Is it the partially unclothed male form that excites, or this particular act?”  
“What? Pissing?”  
“It’s not, as you hear such things, an unusual interest.”  
Charles picks up the words, searches his mind for understanding. “I watched a dancer do it once, in her dressing room, behind a screen. Lifted up her skirts, and squatted. She had a slit in her drawers. She didn’t like me looking. She slapped me, then demanded more money.”  
Somehow, Hickey’s gotten closer to him. When he finds himself looking down, he notes that Hickey’s trousers are now buttoned, feels strangely dispirited. “And what did you do?” Hickey asks.  
“Paid her, and ran away.”  
“If I’d have known, I would have asked for a consideration.”  
Charles snorts. “You see men pissing all the time.”  
“Anything that provides enjoyment has value.”  
“I haven’t got any money,” Charles mutters. “There’s nowhere to spend it.”  
“But you do have something to trade.”  
Charles makes a face. “What? The grog’s free tonight.”  
It takes a moment, but he becomes aware of Hickey’s hand between his legs. He expects Hickey to speak, to throw out another witty remark. When he doesn’t, Charles feels somewhat like he’s just jumped from someplace that was higher than he thought. The feeling persists, as Hickey grasps him, touches him through his clothes, then slowly moves his clothes aside until he’s touching Charles’ bare skin.  
“What did you feel?” Hickey asks, finally. “What did you feel when you watched?”  
Dazed, he sifts clumsily through his recollections until he finds something meaningful. His current circumstances color the memory, which, in the cold light of day, would be insignificant, more comical than exciting, making it pulse with life, with passion. “I liked watching her when she didn’t know I was there. She’d never have done it if she’d known. She was like an animal. But prettier than when she knew you were looking at her.”  
“No,” Hickey says softly. “When you were watching me.”  
It’s now that Charles feels himself flush; now that he feels something. “I don’t like you.”  
“But you like looking at me.” Hickey’s mouth is close to his.  
It doesn’t even occur to Charles to try to lie. “Yes. You’re like her. Something fine that’s been dragged through the mud, thrown down in the dirt.”  
Hickey laughs, his breath warming Charles’ mouth. “It’s the dirt you like.”  
“No.”  
“I think that you’d like to be closer to it.”  
“Maybe.” Though, Charles must admit that he’d agree to almost anything. “Yes.”  
“You want to taste it.”  
He works himself in Hickey’s hand. “No.”  
“Yes.”  
“All right,” he says softly. Before he’s aware of what he’s doing, he already kneeling. He doesn’t think, he just presses his mouth to Hickey’s hands, takes them in his own, kisses the scrapes on Hickey’s knuckles, the calluses on his fingers. He lets go, kisses the knees of Hickey’s trousers, hears a soft, high laugh above him. He falls forward, kisses the toe of Hickey’s boot. Then, he’s lifted, back up on his knees, Hickey holding him up, then, still holding him up, opening his trousers again.  
“Open your mouth,” Hickey says, and Charles does. He shoves his hand down his drawers, closes his eyes, and waits for what’s coming to him.  
It’s water. But it’s hot. And bitter. There’s the suggestion of metal, like you get in poor-quality tea. For half a second, he panics, not knowing what is it, before he reaches the logical conclusion. He swallows, feels the cloying sweetness in befouling himself and the bitter sweetness of shame. When Hickey’s finished pissing, he presses his finger down on Charles’ lower lip, bids him open his mouth wider. His hand on Charles’ face, he slowly pushes his cock into Charles’ mouth. Charles feels his hips jerk. A drop of piss rolls down his neck.  
Charles is dripping.


	10. The Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lovers, René Magritte.  
> Harry Goodsir/Henry Collins. This story takes place after "Horrible From Supper".

“Are you sure?” Harry asks, brow creasing into lines that resemble a handful of twigs. There weren’t so many lines, before, it seems. Perhaps some of them are new, just for Henry. Even if they are for him, he wants to smooth them out, take them away; take away everything that makes Harry worry or fret or fear for anything. The way things are, Henry would have to take away half the world.  
Perhaps he wants this for himself, too.  
“No,” he laughs. Then, more soberly, when he sees that Harry doesn’t see the humor in this, “Yes. I’m sure. I’m with you. I’ll be all right.”  
“You know what to do, if it gets to be too much.”  
“Yes.” He takes Harry’s hand, squeezes it gently. “I do.”  
He has to be immobile. That is the only way it will work. Before, he was free to move, but only beneath the water. So, not really free, at all. The ocean crushed him, from above and from the sides. He felt it wanting to drag him down, below. It was darker, even, than a moonless night. Through the rubber of the diving suit, Henry felt how cold it was. A nick in the skin of the suit would cause a kind of bleeding in reverse, killing liquid flooding in rather than vital liquid flooding out, and just as surely as if a vein had been punctured, sufficient movement of liquid would see Henry dead. The trapeze was the only thing mooring him to the ship, to land, if only the notion of land, the land from whence they came, to life, to the world, to everything. No, not everything. Everything known, and rational. Everything Henry understood. Down, below the waves, there was another world, one that no man could comprehend.  
First, the cloth goes over his head. It’s vital that he see nothing, be unable to direct Harry; to stop it until Henry is sure he can bear no more. He forces himself to remain still, in the muffling darkness, only his own breath for company, a warm fog that, strangely, provides some comfort against the cold, at least. He feels Harry pick up his arms, first one, and then the other, lay them on his trunk, as Harry would do to a corpse. Henry doesn’t think that. He listens to his breathing. Gently, Harry lifts his wrists, ties them, over Henry’s sleeves and not too tightly, so if Henry should panic, he’ll be able to free himself without much difficulty. Tying him up, Henry realizes, is more a gesture than anything, but gestures matter. Most of their entire lives are built upon a scaffold of gestures. All things with no real weight or force are gestures. Memory. Feeling. Belief. Love. Trust. One has to agree to them to give them power, even if that acquiescence is unwilling, unconscious. Then, his ankles, more tightly. Then, his knees, the suggestion of Harry huffing with the effort of moving Henry’s dead weight coming through the cloth over Henry’s head. It doesn’t sound at all like something heard underwater.  
But it’s not like being underwater at all. It’s more like being asleep. Perhaps, it’s something like being dead. Harry told him something that Lady Silence told Harry, about the dead in the north still feeling, after death. Perhaps it’s like this. If he died, would Harry lay him out like this, perhaps not in Harry’s bed, but close to it? Would Harry touch his hands, speak to him softly? Harry could empty out a large trunk, bundle Henry into it. Though it would be hard work, in time, Harry could haul him back to England. Or would Henry cease to feel, once back home? Is it only in the north that the dead live this way? Henry thinks he’d rather be dead in the north, never fully at rest, but tended to, cared for, than to go back home, even if it meant lying in English soil. Is that blasphemous?  
It probably is, he thinks, only slightly troubled by how little it bothers him.  
Harry showed him Jacko’s corpse, yet seemed strangely reluctant to discuss her death. Perhaps it simply grieves him too much. You might grow fond of an animal, take that death as hard as that of a person. They’ve all been so alone in this place. It makes some of them more remote, still. It makes some of them cling to each other. There’s now no doubt that Mr. Bridgens and Mr. Peglar are more than particular friends. If Henry knows, it means that everyone knows. If anyone has anything to say about this, he keeps it to himself. But Henry jealously guards Harry. It’s not shame. For what is shame, in this place, where life begins to feel like sickness, and sickness eats shame? He’d like to lock himself inside of Harry, be carried within Harry wherever he went. He’d exile himself from the rest of life, for that. He’d cut the lines that hold him to the boat, sink down into darkness.  
Perhaps he’s gone too far. It is, he admits, becoming difficult to breathe, though he can get air; he just doesn’t seem to know what to do with it. He raises his hands, and a second later, the cloth is removed from his face.  
“Are you all right?” Harry asks, not waiting for an answer before he begins untying Henry’s hands.  
Henry can’t speak, not yet, so he concentrates on breathing. He sits up, Harry now untying his knees. He leans over, covers Harry’s body with his, lifts his heavy hands to embrace Harry around his middle.  
“One more,” Harry says softly, and unties Henry’s ankles. He sits down next to Henry, lets Henry take him in his arms. His eyes closed against the light, he holds Harry, feels Harry hold him. He thinks about Harry’s breathing, Harry’s heartbeat. Slowly  
Henry emerges.


	11. Magpie Eating Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magpie Eating Cake, by Rubens Peale.  
> Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames. This story takes place between "A Mercy" and "Horrible From Supper".

Out of all of the locations that Francis has visited, the places he’s mapped, those lands of discovery, there is no place quite like the back of James’ neck, the graceful drop down into the space between his shoulder blades. Even after beginning rationing, James remains broad, solid, strength in his very presence. But here, he is delicate. There are delicate bones in his slim neck; there is thin, delicate skin stretched over delicate bones, the suggestion of blue veins beneath like something swimming under the ice’s surface. When James is kissed there, he trembles, letting out a soft, huffing breath, like a startled horse. His back is straight. His skin is pale, but not bloodless. He’s sturdy and whole. Francis is relieved.  
Yet, that place of frailness gives Francis such pleasure. He strokes his thumb across, and down, feels the fineness of the skin, the translucent hairs that cover it. Standing on his toes, he brushes aside James’ hair, kisses down from the nape of his neck, lingering with his hands on James’ shoulders, kissing with his tongue, further down to the center of James’ back. Crouching, he continues, further still, just above the line of James’ drawers, his hands on James’ hips. Here, James is full, curved, not delicately-wrought but generous.  
“Lie down,” Francis says softly.  
He follows James, lies next to him, his front against James’ back, kissing him between his shoulders again. Again. Back up to the stem of his neck, his hand moving under James’ arm to caress his breast. James tries to turn to face him, but Francis says, “No, on your front. Please.”  
James lies face down, folds his arms, rests his head in them. “What would you like to do, with me lying like this?” He says it like a man who knows how much pleasure he gives. Francis feels himself color, opening to the full scope of what he wants, how much he wants.  
“Raise your hips,” he murmurs.  
He unbuttons James’ drawers, pulls them down gently, caressing James as he undresses him, hands on his thighs, his hips, his arse.  
“Francis,” James whispers. Then, again, his head rolling to the side as Francis spreads his legs, he breathes out Francis’ name.  
He follows his hands with his mouth, kissing James’ hips, touching his tongue to the places where the skin is thin over the bones, his mouth opening over soft flesh, over the rise of James’ arse, down the backs of his thighs. Then deeper in, feeling himself flush, his breath catch, spreading James open, tongue against his hole.  
Beneath him, in his arms, James trembles.  
Having gone this far, Francis can’t stop, doesn’t want to. So, he doesn’t. He keeps going, slowly, in circles around that ring of flesh, up and down; enters James with the tip of his tongue, presses in, licks him roughly, all the while, James moaning softly, moving his hips, steadily when he can control himself, jaggedly when he can’t. He breathes out shakily, makes a hollow sound like the breath of a half-drowned man.  
Francis pulls back, helps James to turn onto his back, spreads James’ legs, takes his cock deep, just in time for James to come in his mouth.  
He swallows.  
He lets his head fall onto James’ thigh. Lazily, he turns his head, presses his lips to the soft skin there, feeling like he’s just woken from a fitful sleep.  
“Francis,” James says softly.  
Smiling, Francis runs his hand over James’ hip, pulls himself up to lean on his elbow. “No, I don’t suppose that was the most convenient place for me to rest my head.”  
Sitting up, James says his name again. Before Francis can answer, James moves toward him, draws him in, gathers him up, and Francis lets himself be taken, into James’ arms. Caressing his cheek, James kisses him.


	12. The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, Gino Lorenzo Bernini.  
> Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames. This story takes place between "A Mercy" and "Horrible From Supper".

First, he breathes out. He means to warm James’ exposed skin, but James shivers.  
“Are you cold?” Francis asks, looking up.  
James shakes his head. “No.”  
“Does it hurt?”  
Smiling now, James shakes his head again. “No.”  
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Francis says, perhaps unnecessarily. Though, it doesn’t feel unnecessary to him.  
His face softening with concern, James says, “You don’t have to do this.”  
He touches James’ cheek, then returns his hand to James’ arm. “I want to.”  
“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”  
“Who says I’m trying to prove something?”  
“Francis-” James begins softly.  
He touches his lips the wound on James’ arm. He had expected it to feel significantly different from the rest of his skin, but it doesn’t. The difference is all abstract; perhaps even sentimental. There must be a difference, James trembles so. He does it again, with his tongue this time, a quick sweep. He thought he’d taste blood. When did he think that?  
Gently, he turns James’ arm, exposes the reflecting wound. With his lips pressed to it, he puts out his tongue, sucks gently. James breathes out audibly. Trembles as he breathes.  
He wants to kiss James on the mouth, so he does, James leaning down to meet him, his hand over James’ heart, feeling his chest rise and fall as he breathes. His fingers find the wound below his breast, and he rubs it gently, with his fingers, with his thumb. He bows his head, touches his mouth to it, kissing slowly, his arm around James’ waist.  
“I’m beginning to think you like them more than you like me,” James says. A brittle nervous laugh shakes out of him like a cough. So close to James, he feels it, like something bumping against the hull of a boat.  
He looks up a James. “They’re a part of you.”  
“I know that.”  
“What I mean is that even though they cause you pain, they’re a part of you, and I hope that I can help in the easing of what pain there may be.”  
“I feel it when there’s a chill,” James says absently, looking to the side.  
This time, before he touches, Francis breathes out onto his hands, warming them. Gently, he pets the wound below James’ breast. Softly, he kisses it. “And now?”  
“No,” James says, “there’s no chill at all.”


	13. Vine With Blue Grapes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vine With Blue Grapes, by Johan Laurentz Jensen.  
> Stephen Stanley/Alexander MacDonald. This story takes place after "Punished As A Boy" and before "A Mercy".

He would turn it into an amateur theatrical production; complete with sound effects. It must be audible through the walls. There is only so much that can be explained away as the moaning of the ship’s timbers.  
“Do you have to make so much noise?” Stephen ask fretfully.  
Alexander pulls back, looks up at him, his hair falling over his brow, his expression dangerous. “It’s usually considered impolite to criticize someone when he has your prick in his mouth. Not to mention unwise.”  
Stephen frowns. “It’s usually considered impolite to imitate a barnyard animal at its trough at such a moment.”  
Alexander stands, brushes off the knees of his trousers. “Is that the official naval stance on the etiquette of cock-sucking?”  
“No,” Stephen says, suddenly aware of his own exposure, “just a personal preference.”  
“Perhaps it’s your preference that I not do it at all.”  
Gingerly, he places his hands on Alexander’s hips, conscious not to let the gesture seem too proprietary, too conciliatory. “I didn’t say that.”  
“Maybe you’d prefer me like this,” he says, and slips his hand between Stephen’s legs, his grip tight, his strokes measured. “So that you can look me in the eye as I’m pleasuring you.”  
“Perhaps,” he says weakly. But he’s looking at Alexander’s mouth. He leans down, brushes his mouth against Alexander’s, feels him breathe out, Stephen catching some of his breath, taking it in. This is better, he thinks, or not so much thinks it as feels it, his body relaxing by degrees as Alexander touches him, as he touches his mouth to Alexander’s. It’s like slipping from waking into sleeping, the same joy in abandon-  
He blinks. “Why have you stopped?”  
“I wondered if you might have any advice.”  
“Advice?” Stephen asks, startled.  
“Any comment on my technique, on my manner. Perhaps my hand is too cold?”  
“What?” He looks at Alexander. Alexander looks at him, seemingly completely serious. “No. What are you asking me?”  
“So, you are enjoying yourself.”  
“Yes.”  
“Good. It’s very important to me that I please you.”  
Stephen searches for any trace of mockery in Alexander’s voice or expression, but finds none. “I-” he begins, but then Alexander resumes, and it’s forgotten. Washed away on the swelling tide of warm pressure that rises through Stephen. Alexander’s other hand is under his shirt, moving higher up his body, to his breast, squeezing gently, as one would do to a woman. It occurs to Stephen to feel shocked or insulted, violated somehow, but it feels too good, the brush of Alexander’s thumb against his nipple, rubbing until pleasure becomes so acute that it begins to resemble pain. And all the better for it, Stephen feeling himself nearing-  
“What, now?” he asks. It’s close to a yelp, but annoyance closes over shame, and it’s far more important to address whatever the hell might be wrong with Alexander.  
“Oh, you liked that?”  
“I- You’re doing this out of spite,” Stephen says, sounding helpless.  
“Possibly.”  
“Well, what do you want? An apology? It is I who should have an apology from you; you really were making the most obscene sounds.”  
“If that’s the way you feel about it-” he begins to withdraw his hand from Stephen’s trousers.  
“Please don’t do that,” Stephen says, the ‘please’ catching in his throat. “I apologize. It was an unhelpful thing to say. I was only concerned that someone might hear us.” He says it with the stiff displeasure of a recitation, and hopes it’s enough.  
“All right,” Alexander says, and resumes.  
Stephen feels his head fall back. The interruption was less jarring that he feared, he slipping easily back into reverie, the vital press of Alexander’s hands, gripping him sufficiently to make him feel it, but with enough lightness, so that the pleasure he draws from Stephen is fine. Exquisitely fi-  
“Why are you doing this?” Stephen hisses. Though, he might address the question to himself. If he’s so desperate, he can simply turn to self-abuse. It’s not a flattering thing to think about oneself, but insomuch as physical release is essential, there are more humiliating ways to achieve it than in solitary pursuits. This is certainly one of them. Alexander is as cruel as he is haughty and self-satisfied. He’s a cold, arrogant man who takes pleasure in promising only to withhold. Stephen would be better off alone. In no time at all, the urgency of need would fade, and he’d retain his dignity.  
Yet. He looks at Alexander. There is the glint in his eye that one would take at first for pleasure in cruelty, which Stephen finds upon examination, is more properly a closing off in self-protection from injury. Constricted in displeasure is the mouth that Stephen’s been kissing. Alexander breathes heavily with agitation, the irritation to his pride.  
“Please,” Stephen says.  
“Please, what?” Alexander says sternly.  
“Please, will you continue?”  
“Continue to do what?”  
Stephen sighs. “Please, will you continue to touch me? Please, will you let me finish?”  
“Make you come.”  
“Make me come.”  
“Now, put all of the words together, and say it so that I may understand you.”  
A lesser man would weep. He would be forgiven for doing so. Stephen sighs. “Please, will you make me come?”  
“Again.”  
“What?”  
“Say ‘please’ again.”  
“Please,” Stephen says.  
If Alexander senses any urgency to the request, he doesn’t act on it. Now, he touches Stephen slowly, idly, as though this were flirtation. He lifts Stephen’s shirt, kisses his breast. He sucks, which gives Stephen a peculiar feeling, something like shame, at allowing it and at enjoying it so much. He feels himself tremble. He moans softly.  
“Why did you stop, now?”  
“Say ‘please’ again.”  
“Please.”  
Now, he’s brought nearly to the point of termination before Alexander stops. “Please,” he says. It seems impossible to do anything else. He’s transfixed, compelled, totally subject to Alexander’s hand, his mouth, all of him. He draws Alexander in close to him, holds him there. Leans down, and kisses him, not a touch or a brush, but full and deep and searching, Alexander’s tongue in his mouth as he pulls at Stephen, now faster, rougher, more than Stephen wanted, exactly what he needs. He lets his head fall back, the wall support him as he holds onto Alexander and Alexander holds onto him, and he finally, finally spills himself in Alexander’s hand. After all of that, it seems pointless to be quiet, so he doesn’t try to, only holding back as much as is necessary to avoid attracting attention, letting himself sound as though he’s in exactly as much agony as he is.  
They stay where they are, Stephen breathing heavily, his arm slung around Alexander, both of them stained in sweat and spittle and seed.  
“And how might I show my appreciation to you?” Stephen asks finally.  
“You needn’t worry about me,” Alexander says.  
Stephen draws back and looks at him. “You may pretend that you don’t need me as much as I need you, but I know it isn’t so.”  
“No,” Alexander says softly. “It isn’t.”  
“Then let me take care of you.”  
“Take care of me,” Alexander laughs.  
“Yes,” Stephen says, looks at Alexander until Alexander’s smile fades, and he’s looking back at Stephen, sober but uncertain. “Take care of you.”


	14. Study of Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Study of Flowers, by Hyacinthe Rigaud.  
> Harry Goodsir/Henry Collins. As regards these last three chapters, the canon timeline loses importance as they're essentially amorphous fantasies, and all that's really required for them to make sense is for the reader to imagine that the characters are all alive and well, and on good terms with one another.

“Put it in my mouth,” Harry says.

At first, Henry is shy, even when kissing. He keeps his mouth closed, so that even in an intimate embrace, even after, when they’ve touched and kissed, felt and tasted each other, his kisses are dry, chaste. A soft brush of the lips is sweet, tantalizing, but that is the problem with sweet, tantalizing things. One always wants more. “Do you not like it the other way?” Harry asks.  
“It’s not something I’m used to doing with men, in any way.”  
“Oh,” Harry says, taken aback.  
“It’s not something you usually do with men,” Henry says, as though explaining something very simple.  
Harry considers his own engagements. “I’ve never found that to be true,” he counters.  
“Perhaps it’s different, among gentleman,” Henry says evenly, frowning a little.  
“Would you rather we didn’t?”  
Henry laughs softly. “Not at all.” He draws Harry closer to him, brushes back his hair. Lips slightly parted, he kisses Harry. Harry licks Henry’s lower lip, and slowly, Henry opens his mouth, admits him. He hears the sounds Henry makes, his tongue touching, rubbing against Henry’s. He wants more.

He likes Henry’s mouth on his neck. He likes Henry’s fingers in his mouth. He likes Henry’s hands on his hips, when he sits astride Henry. He likes his mouth on Henry’s breast, brushing against the fur, his nipples, smooth and pink as shell. By accident, he grazes one with the tip of a tooth.  
“Your teeth,” Henry gasps.  
“Did I hurt you?” Harry asks, already placing his hand over the place he struck in apology.  
“No.” Henry shakes his head, flushing down to his breast. “I think, I think I’d like, I want more.”  
Over time, he finds that if he bites Henry gently before the act of lovemaking, Henry’s pleasure is even greater.  
But gently.  
Always gently.

Henry’s fingers in his mouth, inside of him.  
Inside of him a second time, slicked with his own spittle. A full and luscious ache. He holds onto Henry, rubs himself against Henry’s body, stains him. “Fuck me,” he whispers. He comes on Henry’s hip. Semen runs down the inside of Henry’s thigh.

“What do you want?” Henry asks, his expression heartbreakingly open, his eyes so dark and so sweet.  
“Everything,” Harry says.

“Let me see it.”  
Henry opens his mouth but does not speak. Finally, he says softly, “All right.”  
An anemone.  
He listens to Henry’s breathing, soft and shallow, expectant.  
The aperture to the organ of excretion.  
His hands on Henry’s hips, Henry’s skin marble-smooth.  
A loop of polished coral.  
A sea anemone.  
“Do it.”  
“Only if you want me to.”  
The sound of the sea.  
“Take me,” Henry sighs. “All of me.”  
Washed by the sea.


	15. Love Smiteth Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love Smiteth Me, by Dante Gabriel Rosetti.  
> James Fitzjames/Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson.

With Jopson, it always hurts.   
It’s not a matter of an awkward or a painful fit, for while Jopson is well-made, he’s perfectly ordinary in that respect. He slips nicely into James’ hand, fills James’ mouth comfortably enough. It’s certainly not a matter of inexperience, in either party. Nor is it a matter of preparation, James being well aware of what is necessary for their mutual enjoyment. He tries to make it enjoyable for Francis, as well. The first time he asked, he wasn’t sure of how Francis would take it, if he’d see it as an editorial comment, a rebuke or a jest, when it was an offer, an invitation, given in the desire to share his pleasure with Francis. It was in this spirit that Francis took it, took James, as an invitation, one that would not expire. This has become James’ favorite part of the act, Francis’ fingers greased, moving in and out of James, tantalizing James with the promise of what’s to come, though, privately, he thinks of it as complete in itself.  
It must be a matter of intention. While it’s not pleasant to think, the conclusion is impossible not to draw. Jopson likes to hurt him. And James is not entirely sure why.  
“I thought we’d come to an understanding,” James says, trying to sound unconcerned, amused. His attempt is ruined by a particularly energetic movement of Jopson’s, his hand clamped onto James’ hip, rendering James unable to shift himself away to compensate for it. His head falls forward. He gasps, grabs Jopson’s hand entreatingly.  
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, sir.” Somehow, Jopson still manages composure, correctness, even buried completely in James, steady and unforgiving.  
“Later,” James murmurs, his thoughts scattering as Jopson works him harder, drives him further into the bitter ache that is the prelude to release. It is queer, but agony may drag behind it exquisite pleasure. Or, perhaps, it is James being dragged to it, Jopson fucking him like it’s hard labor, all toil and torment, and James bearing it like a beating, not so much participating as enduring. All the while, Francis lies next to him, facing him, watching him, watching him with such tenderness that James can’t bear to look at him. It is a thing almost like shame. Unable to bear it gracefully, perhaps he’s giving a bad performance.  
But then Francis lifts his face, caresses his cheek, moves his hand down James’ neck, across his shoulder to touch Jopson, who, almost imperceptibly, lets up, becomes, not gentle but more present, more aware of James. James pulls Francis closer, presses his face into Francis’ neck, places his hand over Jopson’s on his hip. Not halting, now, but caressing. He breathes out raggedly against Francis’ skin.  
“Look at me, James,” he says softly.  
Though it hurts him, now subject to both the assault of physical release and the wounding sweetness of emotion, James looks. James looks. All sweetness dwells in Francis, though once, James would have thought it impossible, that Francis could be kind. Kind to him. It is excruciating. It is wondrous. Gently, Francis’ mouth touches his. The breath James takes feels like it could be his first, something new and vital filling a previously empty space, bruising him on the inside, making him so soft, so weak. Embraced totally, so full, aching, James moans.   
Sometimes, one must suffer for love.


	16. “In order to love something, you have to have seen and heard it for a long time, you idiots.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andre Breton at a Dadaist festival in Paris, 1920.  
> Thomas Jopson/Francis Crozier; Thomas Jopson/Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames.

This is how it was the first time. The captain sat in his chair, soft and drowsy, having dozed the afternoon away. If he’s in the grip of a dark mood, it’s best to leave him to work through it on his own, unless the he’s absolutely needed, but if he’s not melancholic or ruminative, only weary, when he sleeps is often the best time to tidy up around him. The captain is a heavy sleeper, almost considerate in this, not stirring as Thomas removes dust, straightens papers, hangs up fresh clothing and stows that which needs cleaning. Secretly, it pleases Thomas, that the captain may fall asleep in disorder and wake up with everything set right. On that afternoon, he’d woken with a soft gasp, as though roused from a troubling dream.  
“Sir?” Thomas said.  
“Nothing, Jopson,” he murmured, his mouth a sleepy half moon, his eyes bright beneath their heavy eyelids. Then. “Would you come closer, please?”  
Somehow, without any real indication, Thomas knew what would happen, yet it still sent a sweet thrill through him when the captain raised his hand to Thomas’ cheek and, Thomas bowing to meet him, kissed him softly. They’d gone to bed immediately, though it was the middle of the afternoon. It should have felt wrong. It was glorious.  
The captain moves in his sleep next to him, then wakes, touches Thomas’ cheek, his neck, his shoulder, kisses him. With some effort, he turns around, and Thomas watches, though somewhat obscured, as the captain and Fitzjames embrace. Thomas turns around as well, touches his mouth to the back of the captain’s neck, puts his arm around him. Fitzjames’ hand rests atop Thomas’.  
At times, Thomas feels quite affectionately toward Fitzjames. At other times, he thinks with great longing of the days when nothing came between himself and the captain. It requires great effort to not become jealous; greater effort, still, to not act out that jealousy. He is usually unsuccessful. The marks left by his teeth, pink pinpricks on Fitzjames’ bare shoulder, remind him. Warm and attended to, so close to the captain, Thomas feels the needle of guilt. Even more so when the captain lies back, Thomas and Fitzjames folding in around him, the only way they can fit with any semblance of comfort or logic in a bed that barely accommodates one man, never mind three, and Fitzjames reaches out, touches Thomas. It’s not carnal, not an invitation or an overture; merely friendly, affectionate, the sharing of comfort and warmth. The captain is very fond of Fitzjames, and Fitzjames makes him happy.  
Thomas returns the gesture, touching Fitzjames gently, feeling how he leans into Thomas’ hand. The captain kisses the crown of Thomas’ head. The three of them are falling asleep again.  
This is how it should always be.


End file.
